


Hit Me With Lightning

by Crazyjayblue



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Drabble, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyjayblue/pseuds/Crazyjayblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's gone too long to fuck it all up now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit Me With Lightning

He's not sure how he got home. He'd been at work, there had been a case. He can't remember pain, or trauma, but -while removed- what he feels now is far from bliss. Head throbbing, his knees shake, and the only thing he can think is- “I fucked up” He doesn't remember taking it, but he doesn't doubt that he did. Leaving. He'll leave go to curl up someplace until he's normal again, but he's on the step of his apartment, the one he shares with James. James can't see him like this.

Turning to leave; the door turns to liquid and he can't step forward because it's in his way. He sits down, hard, and feels his leg pulse violently under his sinking weight. A hand grips his shoulder, guides and lifts him through the living room. He knows he's heavy but also can't take any of his burden. James is strong enough for them both, and House wonders how he isn't angry.

The floor of the master bathroom is chill and it sets his skin on fire, prickling cascades and violent shivers wracking his whole body. He wishes he hadn't done it, he wants to beg forgiveness, he's sure he does. But a quiet voice shushes him. All he can think about is it. Vicodin he thinks, and stops talking.

It drips from the needle, it rattles in the bottle. James' hand is strong and insistent in his and he holds on to it for dear life. He tosses the contents of his stomach into the toilet, and, terrified that this is another opium dream like the ones before; tightens his grip.

When he wakes up in the morning he's digging his fingernails into his own hand, and there are deep crescent gouges in his palm. He's also in bed, and the sun is lingering near the West horizon. Not morning, then, night. He's vaguely aware of deep, rattling guilt, and he feels it again when he finds himself alone in bed.

When he goes into the kitchen, there is a tired figure asleep at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out on the table under his cheek and a smear of ink on his face. He sits silently across from James, and observes. Nothing makes sense right now. His hand hurts.

“How are you feeling?” James asks, without raising his head to look.

“What?” Greg snaps, trying to find his footing. Concern, but no anger or frustration.

He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes with a distracted hand. “Looks like your fever broke. I thought you were never going to get over that flu.” He smiles, and Greg looks down at his arms, the pallor of his skin. Not high, ill. He looks at James' hands and sees the shallow wedges left by his fingernails.

“How long was I out?”

“Since yesterday at around noon. Clinic patient infected you with something, nurse at the desk got it too.” The newspaper crinkles, James lifts it to cover his face.

Greg doesn't need to ask; the look James shoots him over the paper is enough, almost too much. Intense without warning. Of course he'd been scared, of course he'd thought. But it's fine now, and they aren't going to talk about it. Instead of picking apart the twisted psychology of the almost-trust they've built, he falls silent. It doesn't yawn, ache, or stretch, it just is. The last strains of light disappear behind the sills of the windows, and he wants to say thank you. Instead he says 'go make me a sandwich', but judging by the smirk on James' face as he stands to go to the kitchen, they're speaking the same language by now anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a big fan of this because it feels like it should be part of something bigger...


End file.
